


Orpheus

by dragonagemage



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Body Worship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Porn with Feelings, Screw gender roles, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, mild body horror (because ghouls), possibly OOC Hancock but who cares, seasoned liberally with headcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-12 20:10:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18453767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonagemage/pseuds/dragonagemage
Summary: No amount of dark humor and feigned confidence will hide Hancock's overwhelming self-hatred. One night at camp, things finally come to a breaking point. The Sole Survivor deals with it the best she knows how, and Hancock finally gets some long-overdue love and care.





	Orpheus

**Author's Note:**

> Written while battling writer's block. Pure smut with some character exploration.

She gives him that look again, the one he cannot read, spoon pausing halfway to her lips, fruit juice dripping back into the can. Caught, she freezes, and forces herself to continue eating.  
That's the fourth time that evening.  
Hancock has no appetite.  
He knows _exactly_ what's up.  
He places his own - not even half-finished - can by the fire, a _little_ more roughly than intended.  
"Look, sister. If it'll make you feel better, I'll go eat in the other room."  
_Because no one wants to be looking at a ghoul while they're having dinner._  
Hancock knows this, and it stings just a little bit harder than usual.  
Because it's her.  
Not that he would ever admit that.  


Her own can slips from her fingers, meeting the floor with a loud _bang _and spilling its contents as it rolls away. Canned cherries. Visceral red. He looks away.__  
" _What?_ "  
She is good at pretending she doesn't understand. She's good at pretending she doesn't find him repulsive, too. A shudder runs down the length of his spine unbidden.  
He almost sighs, because this means that _yes_ , apparently he _will_ have to say it out loud.  
He had hoped she'd have the courtesy not to pretend, so he wouldn't have to actually say it.  
It somehow got more real that way.  
Some things you can't take back, once they've been spoken.  


____

"I know what this is about," he says, a little too callously perhaps, but damn it, it hurts that much more because it's _her_.  
"No one's thrilled about looking at this mug, Sunshine. Me least of all. So why don't I go to the other room and let you finish your dinner in peace?"  
This time, the spoon joins the can on the floor, and the look on her face is nothing short of _horrified_.  
"John..."  
He looks away. He knows where this is going, and he doesn't want to hear another well-intentioned lie.  
She, however, rises from her spot and walks over to him, her face determined. He doesn't move from his own spot on the floor; he merely looks up.  
And he is just a little bit in awe, with her looking down at him with _that_ look on her face.  
Her voice is surprisingly gentle when she speaks.  
"Do you really think so, John?"  
_John._ His throat is suddenly dry, and he looks away and nods, almost imperceptibly. He cannot bear to look into her eyes right then, cannot bear to see the pity in them.  
When he does glance up, the expression on her face is once again one he cannot read.  
"It's obvious my words mean nothing," she mutters, a little sadly. He doesn't understand. Then:  
"Do you trust me, John?"  
Meeting her eyes, he swallows. He finds himself nodding, more firmly this time, before he even had time to consider it.  
"I do." His voice seems more gravelly than usual, as if he forgot how to speak in the brief time it took her to move closer to him.  
"Then let me show you."  
He does't know what to say to that.  
Their relationship is still new enough, still tentative enough, that he isn't sure what she means.  
His throat constricts around his answer so, against his better judgement, he simply nods again.  


\- - -  


There is a small cloud of dust as his back hits the old - surprisingly clean - mattress. The room is not entirely dark, with their fire merrily burning in the next room over, casting dancing shadows through the open door, but he doesn't have much time to study the contents of the shelves and the dresser with _her_ above him, wearing _that_ smile and pinning his wrists - gently - to the old mattress.  
He sees a gleam in her eyes he'd learned to recognize; it's usually reserved for battle. He shudders.  


He only has a moment to study the smile on her lips, before those lips are upon his own, demanding submission. He is glad to grant it, and marvels briefly at her determination; there is no hesitation when she kisses the scars that are his skin, slips her tongue past his ruined lips.  
She allows a quiet sound to slip past her lips - his name - laden with desire, and he briefly wonders at how impossibly good she is at pretending.  
She is above him, her body pressed against his own with nothing but a few thin layers of threadbare clothing separating them - their armor abandoned by the fire as soon as they'd made camp. Her heat is seeping into his skin, her hands still clasped loosely around his wrists - loosely enough for him to pull away. He doesn't.  


She breaks the kiss to look into his eyes - he can almost make out his own image reflected in hers, in the semi-darkness.  
The sting of regret is surprisingly sharp.  
She deserves so much better.  
She is looking down at him with a slight smile, completely unaware of his thoughts, her lips parted, that maddening look of want that he fails to understand written plainly in the lines of her face.  


"John...if it gets too much, tell me to stop, okay?"  
It takes him a moment to force out a hoarse "yeah," though he _still_ doesn't understand - but at that point there is little he'd deny her - before she kisses him again, this time on the cheek.  


Her kiss is careful, soft; a lingering, calculated gentleness. He almost closes his eyes, but she doesn't stop, her lips moving to press soft kisses to his jaw, his temples, his forehead, and - once his eyes _do_ flutter closed - his eyelids.  
Every kiss seems calculated, every kiss seems to linger; and between them, barely audible words of praise.  
"I love you so much, John. And I want you to know how desperately - _kiss_ \- unconditionally - _kiss_ \- utterly I love you." She pauses to look into his eyes. "How perfect you are to me."  
This - he wasn't expecting this. Their half-clothed, rushed trysts were one thing, those he could take, but _this_...  
He almost forgets to breathe for how much her words _hurt_.  
But he doesn't stop her, he doesn't say a word when her lips graze his jaw, finding a spot on his neck to press another kiss to.  
She lets go of his wrists - still, he doesn't move - her fingers find the hem of his shirt.  
He freezes.  
"You can tell me to stop, okay John? At any time."  
He swallows and nods in response, forcing his muscles to relax as she shifts to place herself between his thighs.  


It is one thing to know you are hated, and trade venomous words with drunken bigots in the streets, flaunting the scars you have out of spite. It is one thing to _own_ what you are, to pour the self-hate into a witty joke and a grin. Hell, it is one thing to have drunken, chem-fueled, half-clothed trysts in the dark. But this? Hancock doesn't know what to do with _this_.  


Neither of them are drunk - though he wonders how she can do what she is doing sober - and she didn't take any chems that would explain it. Hell, it's been hours since Hancock himself had taken anything. The need returns tenfold at that realization.  
He isn't sure how much longer he can take the raw _reality_ of her lips on his scarred, torn skin.  
_This isn't right. She deserves better._  


Her fingers toy with the hem of his shirt, and - suddenly - her lips find the strip of bare flesh above the waistband of his pants. He freezes again.  
  
She doesn't seem to notice.  
  
"God, John. I adore you so fucking much." There is a clear tone of need in her voice, and it sends a jolt down his spine; he almost, _almost_ believes her.  
She pushes his shirt up, a fraction of an inch, and kisses the newly-exposed skin with the same reverence.  
"You make me...god, you make me want you so much." Another kiss.  
Her lips map out the outline of his hipbone, whispering praises against his torn flesh.  
He is almost painfully hard.  


She doesn't seem to notice or otherwise doesn't seem to care, focusing instead on pushing his shirt up another inch, showering the marked, ravaged skin with kisses.  
She reaches the too-visible outline of his ribcage, carefully tracing kisses on both sides, her fingers gently caressing every exposed inch of skin maddeningly slow, as if she is determined to commit every detail, every scar to memory.  
  
Her eyes are half-lidded, but never fully closed - he doesn't know how she can stand it - and she looks at him like he's something worth touching, like she actually does _want_ to be running her fingers across the ravaged expanse of his stomach.  
  
She gives his chest the same attention - her kisses are slow, careful, gentle, some of them wet and open-mouthed and wanting. The heat of her lips is searing, and when she finishes tracing his collarbone with kisses, and finally reclaims his lips, Hancock needs her so much that it hurts.  
She finally pulls his shirt entirely off, discarding it by the bed, and wraps him up in her arms, pressing her body flush against his. He cannot help her name slipping past his lips.  
  
She kisses him hungrily, deeply, cupping his face as a wordless demand that he submit to her once again. And, once again, he does.  
He always does.  
  
But that does not seem to earn him release, as she still ignores his achingly hard length in favor of beginning her quest all over again, slowly, leisurely pressing kisses to his jaw, his neck, his shoulders.  
As she makes her way downwards again, slowly as if she has all the time in the world to press kisses to his skin and whisper undeserved praise, all Hancock can do is grip the bed frame in a white-knuckled grip and pray he doesn't come undone then and there, just from her kisses.  
It is the most exquisite kind of torture he'd ever experienced.

She pauses, taking his hands in hers, pressing kisses on the inside of his wrists, on his palms, and to each of his knuckles individually, before guiding his hands back up to the headboard. Obediently, he grips the metal once again.  
She scatters kisses across his chest, his stomach, and once she finally reaches the sash and unties it with deft fingers, there are actual tears in his eyes.  
He is pretty sure he would come undone the moment she touched him.  
She doesn't.

Carefully, she slides his pants down over his hips, discarding them to the side with his long-forgotten shirt, pausing to look at him with lust in her eyes.  
Slowly, she parts his knees to press a gentle kiss to his inner thigh.  
"God, John, you're so fucking gorgeous."  
He doesn't question, doesn't think about it, doesn't do anything but try and fail to control his breathing as she traces kisses up the inside of his thighs, to his hipbones, _everywhere_ but where he needs her lips the most.  
He chokes on a sob, watching her ignore his aching need, the clear, slick proof of his want dripping on his stomach.  
She kisses it away, carefully avoiding his erection still.  
He swears, struggling to control his labored breathing and fighting a losing battle against the sharp, already unpleasant ache of unfulfilled need.  
"Fuck. Oh, fuck. _Please_..."  


At that, she looks up, the corners of her lips turned up in a slight, triumphant smile.  
His mind passively registers that he's completely naked, exposed before her, struggling to speak through labored breaths, painfully hard with his own slickness painting his stomach, in full view.  
He _doesn't care._  


She holds his gaze as her hands caress his stomach, pausing at his hips while she smiles.  
  
"John. I love you so fucking much."  
  
Without warning, she takes him in her mouth.

His back arches, a soundless scream escaping his lips as the wet heat of her mouth envelops him.  
She takes him deep, and he can do nothing as his long-overdue release approaches too fast.  
He cannot stop the surge of heat as it fills her mouth, his fingers clawing at the mattress; she does not stop until he's spent, doesn't waste a drop of his release.

When she finally looks up to meet his eyes, with the brightest smile on her lips, John Hancock is too tired to think. He sees the inexplicable devotion in her eyes, and he lacks the capacity to question it.  
He doesn't do anything but open his arms - a wordless request - feeling too spent to even question himself, or the fact that he just asked her to curl up against his bare, scarred chest.  
After all, she seems perfectly content to do so.  
They settle into the old mattress, facing each-other. He can feel her fingers caressing the back of his neck, tracing the curve of his spine. She doesn't seem to mind falling asleep facing him. He tilts his head forward, touching his forehead to hers.  
He also allows her to press a kiss to the place the bridge of his nose would have been, and swallows, seeking the right words for what he feels the need to say before sleep overtakes him.  
"Yeah, I... I love you, too."  



End file.
